


Old Habits Die Hard

by Banashee



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo ROUND 2 [1]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Childhood Trauma, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hiding, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Missions Gone Wrong, Phil Coulson Needs a Hug, Protective Clint Barton, Protective Phil Coulson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:00:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27152140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Banashee/pseuds/Banashee
Summary: Some habits are a part of him for so long, Clint doesn't even think about them anymore. No matter if as a kid or an adult; the need to hide away when things get hard is strong.The thing is, he doesn't need to anymore.He's not quite used to that yet.-Bad Things Happen Bingo - Round 2!Square 1/25: Don't let them see you cry
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo ROUND 2 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1981954
Comments: 15
Kudos: 82
Collections: Bad Things Happen





	Old Habits Die Hard

**Author's Note:**

> Bad Things Happen Bingo - Round 2!  
> Originally, I had this aaaall planned out as a NaNoWriMo project, but I decited to scrap that. Instead, I'll just write little snippets for each prompt and safe the larger ideas for another time. I'll write them - one day...  
> *Looks at giant pile of unfinished ideads and projects*  
> *nervous laughter dissolving into desperate sobbing*  
> -
> 
> As always, I'm crossposting these stories on my Tumblr.  
> https://banashee.tumblr.com/
> 
> You can get your own Bingo Card over at  
> https://badthingshappenbingo.tumblr.com/
> 
> -
> 
> I hope you enjoy this round as well - please let me know. And now, let the Angst Fest begin!

****

**Old Habits Die Hard**

Dust and spiderwebs tickle him, but Clint can’t wipe them away because his hands are clasped tightly over his mouth. He can’t let go.

It’s hard enough to be quiet as it is now, because the walls are thin and if Dad hears him, everything will get worse. So much worse.

Clint is almost choking on fear when there are heavy footsteps on the stairs - faintly, he hopes that Dad is just going to bed and not coming for him again. Tonight has been bad enough already.

The last few hours, Clint has spent wedged under his bed, staring at the underside of an old and moldy mattress while the sounds of shouting, glass breaking and fists hitting the walls travel up from the living room. 

Dust, spiderwebs, dirt - he’s just as used to hiding here as he is to hiding his tears. Usually, he’s good at it, well-practised especially for being so young. Other 6-year olds would weep openly, seek comfort from parents or even siblings, but he hadn’t thought this to be possible for as long as he can remember. When things get too much, he has to hide himself away to avoid more pain and heartbreak.

Mom keeps telling him that Dad doesn’t mean to, not really. It’s the alcohol, she says, and doesn’t believe her own words. Maybe that was true, a few years ago, but Clint can’t remember those times. 

Even Barney doesn’t seem to want to deal with him anymore. All he does is tell him to be quiet and keep it together. But then again, at least he offers to teach him how to hit back. Clint isn’t sure what to make of it, but he’ll take what he can get.

As for the moment, all he knows is that it’s best to avoid Dad as much as possible, or he’ll run the risk of having to nurse another black eye, split lip or twisted wrist that night. And god forbid he’ll cry from shock, pain or fear - no, this is better. Better hide here, for as long as he can. 

So Clint spends the better part of the night hiding under the bed, hands clasped tightly over his face to stifle the sobs.

*+~

Shooting arrows with a blurry vision is probably a bad idea. Clint knows this, but he also doesn’t give a shit. No one else is here to witness it, after all, which is about the only good thing about this situation. 

Clint can’t leave, because if either Trickshot or the Swordsman see him away from his practise spot, all hell will break loose and that’s the last thing he needs right now. It’s already dark outside and the crowd for the big show left. The tent is empty, save for Clint and the archery equipment. 

His arms are shaking and pain is burning through his entire body. It doesn’t stop him from emptying the quiver, arrow after arrow quickly finding their way to the targets. Some are slightly off-center. Not enough for someone in the crowd to notice, if there was anyone here, but it’s certainly not good enough to make either of his mentors happy.

Clint curses silently, taking a few deep breaths and wiping one sleeve across his face to soak up some stray tears that he couldn’t hold back. 

He needs to calm down, but he knows what it feels like when he desperately needs a break, knows what it feels like when he can barely hold himself together anymore.

Not like anyone cares. If it was up to him, he’d have stayed in bed and slept for a week, but he isn’t allowed to. 

Lately, Clint has been much more anxious than usual, and he sleeps like shit. The flu that he’s developing at the moment doesn’t help that at all, but it’s not like he could ask for time off.

There are paying customers, so he is forced by Trickshot and Barney to go in the ring and make that sweet, sweet money. No time to get well and get a grip on himself.

Tonight, he’d missed a shot in front of 150 people. Trickshot is livid. Although he doesn’t even believe in a god, Clint hopes and prays to every single deity that may or may not be out there, that Trickshot will be too drunk to do anything by the time Clint is done here. 

Normally, he’d have been finished his work for the day by now, but fucking up a show is unacceptable, so he does what Trickshot has snarled at him on the way out, with a hard slap to the face and roughly shoving him aside: “practise!”

Clint knows he’ll have to pay the price for his failure, eventually. From past experience, he knows just how painful it is, and he just knows he can’t take anything more for the day. 

Missing a shot in front of a crows hasn’t happened in a long time. But Clint is definitely getting sick. On top of that, he is anxious, running on way too little sleep, so at this point, a mistake had been inevitable. 

‘ _Get it together, get it together, get it together_ ’ Clint keeps thinking all over again, pulling the last arrow out of the target with more force than necessary. He’s exhausted, angry at himself for missing the shot and emotions are boiling hot in his chest. 

“Fuck.” 

The curse comes out in a choked off, desperate sound and the boy just stops entirely, eyes burning and a heavy knot in his throat. He’s about to reach his breaking point once again.

Just for a minute, Clint allows himself to stand there, facing the target and away from the entrance, just in case. 

*+~

For the entire flight back to base, no one says a word.

There are three teams of SHIELD agents crammed into the jet, which under normal circumstances would be a chatty environment at the very least, depending on the people involved, maybe even loud with jokes and laughter, or at least arguing about something. Now though? None of those things happen. Everyone is quietly sitting there, most if not all of them awake, just staring holes into the air with eyes that are dead and empty.

When they arrived on site the day before, there were twelve Agents, including handlers. 

Now, on the way back, five of them are in body bags and two in critical condition. The rest of them have suffered various injuries. This OP had been a hard one. 

Clint has folded himself into a corner seat, no window, but there is a wall that he can lean into. It vibrates and makes his headache worse, but he doesn’t move.

He sits perfectly still, just like he would if he was in a sniper's nest. But instead of focusing on a target, he is counting silently in steps of three in his head. It helps him not to think of the mission, helps him keep his emotions in check. He knows it won’t help forever - but it’s usually enough to keep him going until he can break down in private. 

When Clint arrives in the lower thousands, he counts backwards in steps of five. Just so he’s got something to do, something to focus on, anything other than the gruelling OP and dead or injured colleagues. 

Very carefully, he avoids thinking about anything to do with this mission and just keeps counting. Despite being exhausted, he doesn’t sleep. 

A few hours into the flight, one of the other Agents startles awake. At first he is thrashing around, then screaming until it dissolves into violent, desperate sobs while he is curled up in a corner on a crowded plane, surrounded by people. He is probably mortified, trying to hide away, but it’s useless. 

Clint feels for him - he really does. But he doesn’t have it in him to go over there and comfort the other agent. Thankfully though, one of his teammates is sitting right next to the guy and does the job. It’s probably for the best, but this is one of the reasons Clint refuses to sleep here. He doesn’t want to be the next person to freak out in front of an audience. 

So, he keeps counting. 

At some point, Phil is sitting down on the empty seat next to Clint without a word. 

He looks just as empty and exhausted as everyone else, but as the only handler who is still alive, his job is far from over. Clint can feel the tension running through his entire body, just from the way their legs and upper arms touch. Neither of them talks and they carefully avoid more contact. 

If it was just them, it might be different, but as it is, they’re at a point where too much comfort or even physical contact would lead to emotions flowing over, and it would be messy, no doubt. 

They keep their hands to themselves, just keep staring holes into the air just like everyone else.

Clint has lost count - he starts over, this time in steps of seven.

By the time they are back at base and finished with the debrief, Clint moves like he is being remote controlled. He knows he probably won’t last much longer, his facade crumbling away and his hands are starting to shake. Soon, everything will come crashing down around him and he does his best to keep breathing and stay upright. 

It takes three attempts to notice that Phil is talking to him on the way down to the garage - the two of them are the last people to leave. Nobody else around to watch or listen. He only notices when Phil lightly touches his hand as they walk next to each other.

“Clint.”

“Huh? Sorry, I-” His voice is breaking, so he just stops. Phil understands, he knows.

“Come on. You shouldn’t drive like this.”

“Neither should you.” he replies hoarsely, because Phil looks just as bad as him.

“No. But there is a car waiting for us. If you want to, you could stay with me.”

‘So we don’t have to be alone’ he doesn’t say, but it’s heavily implied. After a beat of silence, Clint nods.

“Yeah, okay.” Without thinking, he grabs the other man’s hand and squeezes tightly for a moment, and is relieved when Phil squeezes back without letting go. 

The car ride to Phil’s place doesn’t take as long, what with it being the middle of the night. Neither of them talks, but they don’t let go of each other’s hands. Clint has gone back to counting soundlessly, just like on the plane. He only stops when the car stops and their driver announces the location. 

Once again like being remote controlled, Clint gets up and out of the vehicle, holding up one hand to wave thanks to the agent behind the wheel. Even that little movement exhausts him. 

By the time the apartment door closes behind both of them, his eyes are burning. Clint is standing in the middle of the hallway, and just _stops_. Slowly, his bag slides off of his shoulder and then hits the floor. Breathing gets hard, and a second later, he is pulled into a warm embrace. Without a thought, his arms wrap tightly around Phil and the two of them cling to each other for a while. 

Here, they are alone with each other, no one around to judge or keep up any pretense for. Here, they are safe to let go of a long, painful day.

Clint has his face hidden in his partners shoulder, still biting back tears out of sheer habit, but he clings on tightly. One of his hands is curled around the nape of his neck, gently stroking the exposed bit of skin in between Phil’s collar and his hair. In return, Phil keeps rubbing his back in small, soothing circles, although he himself is shaking in Clint’s arms. 

For how long the two of them stay like this, he couldn’t tell. Time has lost all meaning.

Still, they can’t stay here in the hallway forever. 

Reluctantly, they pull apart and make their way to the bathroom so they can shower and crash into bed as quickly as they can possibly manage in their state. Neither of them talks.

Once again, Clint is having trouble to keep from crying. He doesn’t even realize he is still fighting the urge to give in but it is increasingly harder after the day they’d had. Holding himself together is especially hard with all the love and tenderness that Phil is treating him with, gentle hands massaging shampoo into his dirt- and blood crusted hair, soft lips kissing the side of his neck. It feels so good, and it would be so easy to give in, but he doesn’t allow himself to. 

Clint knows, logically, that it is safe and okay to let go here. But old habits die hard. 

Phil doesn’t question him and stays relatively quiet while they wash up and hold each other close under the steaming hot water. 

It isn’t until they’re wrapped around each other in bed that the dam finally breaks. 

Clint doesn’t mean to, but there is no way to stop now. It happens when he tells Phil how much he loves him. He wants to tell him that none of this is their fault, even though part of him is still blaming himself for it, despite knowing better.

But then, the words get stuck in his throat and next thing he knows, Clint is falling apart. When he tries to apologize for it, Phil gently shushes him and hugs him closer. It takes a bit for him to be able to speak himself, but when he manages to, he does so with a strength he didn’t know he still had .

“Don’t, it’s okay. It’s okay, I’ve got you. We’re safe, it’s okay…”

Phil keeps talking, repeating the same mantra over and over again as well as “I love you” - that part, probably more than anything else.

And for the first time in his life, Clint actually believes it.

  
  


*+~

Square: Don't let them see you cry

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings:
> 
> \- violence, blood  
> \- referenced alcoholism of a parent / caretaker  
> \- Implied character death, but no main characters  
> \- Child abuse  
> \- Trauma  
> \- bad memories  
> \- Mental health issues  
> \- coping methods  
> \- mention of spiderwebs


End file.
